a slow dumb show for you
by ratherembarrassing
Summary: Brittany's fingers curl, and she's right there and—. set between seasons 3 and 4.


Brittany's fingers curl, and she's right there and—

Santana's breath rushes from her lungs, desperate to make space for more oxygen. She's wound so tight her hips roll against the mattress, searching for something that was there only in her mind. Her pulse thuds in her veins, deep and strong and fast. The sheet is scratchy against her skin, damp and clingy, and twisted between her fists.

Her eyes fly open, taking in the darkness of her bedroom. She looks to the right, and Brittany's on her back, nothing but naked skin and the sheet pushed down to her waist, tiny sounds of snoring coming from her open mouth.

_Shit_.

Brittany only sleeps like that when she is dead tired, which Santana knows she is. It's summer, and she's teaching three dance classes and taking math and english at summer school, and, because Santana is leaving soon, any time Brittany's not in a classroom she's spending with her needy, needy girlfriend.

Her mom called her pathetic the other day, but she can't help it. She doesn't want to leave.

Not when she's come to need this person beside her in bed just to sleep, not when she doesn't know how to say the things she means with words but she can show them with her eyes and her smile and her touch, not when she's gone so long without having to know how to begin and end with herself that she can't remember how to do it.

She rolls onto her side, legs sliding together. She traces Brittany's profile; her nose, her chin, her neck, her chest. Her eyes stay there, and her pulse reasserts its presence.

Santana spends a moment wondering what would be ruder: getting herself off while she lies beside her sleeping girlfriend, or waking said girlfriend up to do it for her.

No one can ever say she's not a considerate girlfriend, she thinks, and then shoves her hand underneath the sheet and between her thighs.

She pauses there, making sure her movements didn't wake Brittany, but her body's having none of it, and her hips shift against her hand, fingers slipping uselessly through the wetness.

The dream is slipping from her grip now, but she remembers Brittany inside her, and she needs that back, that solid feeling of connection, so she shifts onto her back and brings her hand lower, fingers sinking in easily.

It's not the same, but it'll do.

She rolls her wrist, the joints of her fingers dragging past her entrance each time, and when she's stretched herself far enough, sunk in deep enough, the heel of her hand can sit in just the right spot and—

"Oh, god," she whispers, hips lifting off the bed. She didn't mean to make any noise, and her head rolls to the side to look at Brittany beside her, still sound asleep.

She watches for a moment, stroking herself in time to Brittany's breathing. Even though she can't really see anything besides outlines, she still knows what Brittany looks like naked, and she can fill in the shadows, and it has her biting her lip to keep from making any more noise.

Little gusts of air breathe through her nose, and she pulls her fingers out for a moment, spreading the wetness across her clit. She circles around it, her hips jerking in response, and she brings the hand that's still curled around the sheet up to her breast to pinch at her nipple.

Her teeth sink deeper into her lip, just as her fingers sink back inside, and she tries not to think about how she should get used to this, having only herself, because soon it will be all she has. She shakes her head, like it can shake the thought away.

She's a little too rough with her breast, and after a while it's more painful than pleasurable. Her hand drops back to the mattress, palm pressed flat into the sheet, and when Brittany's hand curls around her fingers, she jerks so hard she only just manages to avoid hitting herself in the face.

"Hey, shhhhhh," Brittany says, and when Santana looks over she's rolled onto her side, head propped up on her fist. "Keep going."

"Britt," she says, the name catching in her throat and breaking. She starts to pull her hand away, but Brittany holds it in place, the sheet still between them, and presses her fingers back against herself.

She starts to protest, "What about—" when Brittany moves her finger to cover Santana's lips.

"Let me watch."

It's kind of weird; is she supposed to put on a show or just keep doing what she was doing. But Brittany looks so interested, how can she deny her?

She pushes the sheet down, Brittany's eyes following her hand as it pushes past her hips, revealing her hand, fingers shiny and resting against her clit. She looks back up to Brittany's face, and their eyes connect again, the sleepy arousal in Brittany's urging her on.

Her fingers swipe down across her clit and back to her entrance, but Brittany's eyes don't move from her face; not until she presses back in, three fingers this time, and her eyes roll back a little at the feeling.

Even with her eyes closed she can feel Brittany watching, and she clenches her eyes tighter, trying to commit the burn of sensation along her skin to memory.

But she can't stay away for long, and she blinks her eyes open to look at Brittany, who's still watching, chest heaving and the muscles along her arm twitching. Santana's eyes skitter across the expanse of skin, the tight pull across Brittany's stomach and around her hips, which tilt in time with Santana's flexing hand.

Her tongue wets her breath-dried lips. "You should— too," she pants, her words scratching at her vocal cords.

"But I want to give you my full attention," Brittany says softly. "It would be rude."

A chuckle pushes between her labored breaths, and she curls her arm to bring her free hand to cup Brittany's cheek. "It could never be rude to share this with you."

Brittany's hand curls around her wrist, bringing her palm to her lips and pressing a kiss there. "Okay," she says, another kiss to Santana's fingertips before she lets her go.

She watches, even as her fingers continue to work against her, as Brittany sinks down beside her, and even though it's dark she knows what Brittany's doing to herself by the catch in her breath and the weakness in her voice.

Brittany's close almost instantly, and the knowledge that it's just from watching her surges through her to throb in her gut. Her hips aren't under her control anymore, and she adds a curl to her fingers every time she strokes in. Her eyes close as her back arches, head pressing back into the pillow for leverage and her hand slippery against her clit.

"Uh— 'tana," Brittany's voice breaks, and Santana needs to be closer but she can't stop. She can't stop but she can't leave Brittany untethered across the mattress, can't leave herself that way either, and her free hand skips across the sheet until it finds its mate, fingers twisting around Brittany's.

"San—," Brittany cries out, "San," and two of her knuckles are crushed together, imperfectly laced between Brittany's as her hand clutches at Santana's.

She tries to call back to her, but her lungs are too busy, her voice too tight, and all she can manage is to squeeze Brittany's hand in return as her body strains against her own hand, arching off the bed before everything lets go, flooding her awareness with everything it had been holding back in anticipation of this moment.

Her body throbs with sensation, and it overwhelms her in waves. But over it all she can feel Brittany's grip and she focuses on that though everything else, fights through the overload to hear Brittany crying out her own moment of release.

For the first time since she woke, her hips are completely still, and she sinks into the mattress.

"You should wake me up with orgasms every night," Brittany says, laughter in her voice.

"Deal," she breathes, lungs struggling still. It's all she really wants in life.

Brittany shifts beside her, curling against Santana, head against her shoulder. "Deal."


End file.
